Page 97 of Dirty Hit
That’s all I need.
“Last chance,” I say, voice dropping, hands sliding to his knees and pushing them apart so I can step in between. “You tell me right now if you don’t want this to go further than it has. You say red, and we stop. You say no, and I back off. You say you need to go slow, and we go slow. Once we start, though…” I trail off, letting the weight of it hang between us. “No half-measures right now, Little Sin. I need to be inside you tonight.”
He holds my gaze, breathing hard, and there’s fear there, yeah, but it’s the right kind. The kind that says he understands this is a line and he’s choosing to cross it with his eyes open. His fingers tighten on my shirt, and he tugs me closer until our noses almost brush.
“I don’t want you to be gentle,” he says. “I want you—all of you. I want to wake up tomorrow and know this is where I crossed the line, and that I did it on purpose.”
My control snaps so hard I almost hear it. “Good, because I’ve been holding back for too long, and it’s getting fucking painful.”
He huffs, a small, wild smile tugging at his mouth. I lean in, kiss that smile off his face, and let my hands finally do what they’ve been itching to do since the first night he walked into my cottage in that neat button-down.
I drag his sweater up over his head, my fingers brushing the warm skin beneath, and feel him shiver under my palms. His hands are all over me too, tugging my hoodie off, pulling my shirt up, splaying over scars and ink like he’s cataloguing every inch.
When he reaches for my waistband, fingers trembling, he hesitates, looking up for permission. I grab his wrist and press it down, not to stop him, but to steady him.
“I’ve got you,” I say. It’s a promise, a threat, a vow—all of it at once. “You’re not going to Hell for this, Brendon. If anyone’s punching your ticket, it’s me. And I’d drag you down myself before I let anyone else touch you.”
He laughs, choked, disbelieving, and turned on as hell. “That’s… not how salvation works,” he says, even as he arches into my touch.
“Lucky for you,” I murmur against his throat, “I don’t give a fuck about saving your soul.”
I push him back on the mattress and climb over him, his legs opening for me without hesitation now, his hands pulling me down like gravity.
For the first time in a long time, the only thing in my head is the sound of his breathing and the knowledge that this right here is what all that violence, all that control, all those sleepless nights have been circling without a name.
I found another kink buried in my Little Sin tonight: watching violence done in his name, knowing I’ll break things so he doesn’t have to. It’s fucked up and messy and dangerous.
It also makes a lot of sense that he’d be drawn to the monster that stepped in when his own saints failed him. Of course he’d want to see what it looks like when the Beast bares its teeth on his behalf.
As for me: Addiction confirmed.
And I’m so fucked.
Dominic
Iswearthehighfromearlier spikes all over again. His heartbeat is a frantic little rabbit under my palm, and mine answers with a heavy thud that vibrates through both our chests.
He smells like my body wash, from the shower we shared this morning, and the cheap cinnamon gum he chews when he’s nervous; the combination wrecks me in a way thousand-dollar cologne never could.
He’s a fucking portrait—wide green eyes already glassy with need, lips parted, freckles playing connect-the-dots across cheekbones that flush deeper each time I breathe a little harder.
I drag my thumb along his bottom lip and feel the quake run through him. I know I need to dial this back a degree, or I’ll end up ruining him before we even start.
But Christ, I want to watch him splinter.
He’s naked except for the silver chain around his neck, cross lying flat against skin flushed rose. My gaze drags over him with all the subtlety of a blowtorch: his pink-tipped cock, hard anddripping precum, the dusting of hair on his stomach, his thighs, trembling despite the illusion of stillness he tries to hold.
He squirms under the scrutiny, knees inching together, but I shove them apart with the rough nudge of my own thigh, shaking my head. “No hiding from me.”
He swallows, throat bobbing. “I know.”
I pull back and his eyes flick to my cock, but I pretend to ignore it. Then, I lie back on the bed, legs spread, cock resting heavy against my stomach, and I slap his leg. “C’mere. I want that ass in my face.”
His eyebrows shoot up like he can’t believe I’ve said that out loud, which is hilarious, because I’ve said way filthier shit with a knife in my hand before, but he obeys. He crawls on hands and knees, turns, and eases back until he’s straddling my chest.
The position forces his cheeks to part enough that I can see his hole flutter, and heat pulses through me so hard I bite down on my bottom lip. I groan, low and involuntary, and squeeze the meat of his ass just to watch it jiggle.
“Fuck, baby, look at you.” I blow a lazy stream of air across the sensitive skin, watching him shiver. “You clean yourself out good for me?”
